Two hours passed. A long intermission.
We still had radio contact, and Kennedy made sure we got the updates she thought we needed. The plane had been twenty minutes late. Enough time for the armored vehicle at the airstrip to attract a lot of undead attention. It took a lot of close-quarters fire to get Mrs. Sorensen and not-yet-legal Sorensen into the Guardian. Sergeant Grant didn’t make it. Neither did the pilot. Another Twelve had been bitten hard and was bleeding, but we didn’t know who. But they had the package and they were heading home.
Sorensen was about halfway between the gates and the helipad. I could see him through the fences. His hair was pretty thin on the top and I remember wondering if he had any sunscreen on. When Kennedy told him the news he applauded.
About fifteen minutes later we saw the cloud of dust where the Guardian was coming across the desert to us. Everyone took their places. Squads Twenty-one, Twenty-two, and Thirty-two loaded fresh mags in our rifles. The two inside gates opened.
In the past two hours, most of the exes had wandered back to the fence. They were pretty determined to get in, what with all these tasty soldiers standing right on the other side. Freedom sent another volley of grenades out across the desert, about ninety degrees off from where the Guardian was coming in. A bunch of the exes at the back of the crowd turned and staggered towards the noise. Not as many as last time, but still a good chunk of them. He sent his second cluster and it attracted a few more.
Then the Guardian stopped. It was still a good two hundred yards from the outside gate. We heard the engine cough and give up under the clicking teeth. It was against protocol, but I switched over to the command channel.
“It’s got a fifty gallon tank,” snapped Kennedy’s voice. “How the hell are you out of gas?”
“Seven, this is Twelve. I don’t know,” said Britney. Sergeant Washington. I remember that, too. Forcing some distance between us right at that moment. Her voice was stressed. “We’re bone dry. The tank must have taken a hit or something.”
“A hit from what?” I looked up at Kennedy, standing near Freedom on the tower. I could almost see her grinding her teeth.
“I don’t know, First Sergeant!”
There were voices in the background when she talked. I could hear somebody muttering and another woman. Sorensen’s wife, wanting to know why they’d stopped. There was an edge to her voice.
A tiny figure leaped from the passenger side of the Guardian. There was a spare gas can on the roof. You wouldn’t carry one in combat, but it’s not like the exes had snipers hiding on rooftops. He looked around for a moment then dove back inside and slammed the door.
The exes saw him moving. They heard the door. They started to veer away from the captain’s grenade show and stumble toward the armored vehicle. A few by the fence turned and we shot them in the back of the head.
Washington came back on the radio. “Seven, this is Twelve. There’s no gas.”
“Twelve, this is Seven. Explain.”
“Seven, this is Twelve. There are no spare cans. We have no gasoline.”
I saw Kennedy shoot a glare down at Gus and Wilson. I’d be the first to think they fucked up, except I saw them loading two cans on the Guardian an hour before the mission. They should’ve been there.
Freedom set off another wave of explosions away from the carrier. A few exes paused, but most of them kept heading for the Guardian. Movement trumps sound in their tiny brains.
The grenades didn’t help things in the carrier, either. Civilians don’t do well with explosions that aren’t on television. Washington came back on the radio and a girl’s voice was shrieking in the background. “Start the engine,” she was yelling. “Please start the engine.”
“Seven, this is Twelve,” said Washington, “how should we proceed?”
The first of the exes had reached the Guardian. They could see the people inside through the narrow windows. They started clawing at the sides of the vehicle.
“Twelve, this is Seven, hold your position,” said Kennedy. “We’re going to figure a way to get you out of there.”
“Seven, this is Twelve. The Sorensens are not dealing well with this.” The muffled sound of teeth clicking together came over the radio with her voice.
“Twelve, this is Seven, understood,” she said. “Hold your position.”
There were about twenty exes around the armored vehicle. In five minutes there were going to be twice as many. “Twelve to Seven. Copy.”
“Don’t make me run for it,” said Adams in the background of the Guardian. I never thought he’d be one to panic. First night jitters, I guess. “Please don’t make me run.”